


Stars in a Reasonably Priced Car

by WennyT



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: (of the very rude British variety), Audi cars are much more than Volksies, Cars, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Gratuitous Swearing, Humor, I do not think a Lexus is a glorified Toyota, I mean no offence to Tata Daewoo, M/M, Racing, Social Commentary, or rather, sort of HoMin if you squint, through discussing the type of cars stereotyped to be driven by certain people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WennyT/pseuds/WennyT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This episode of Top Gear, Jeremy Clarkson gets guests not of British nor Western fame, but it's all right, because they are rather amusing and they can talk cars. Though one is too earnest and the other, cheeky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars in a Reasonably Priced Car

* * *

 

“It’s hard to craft an introduction for them, and half of you –all the birds, really— in the audience are barely standing still from all the excitement of just seeing them in the flesh, and the other half can’t be bothered. Mostly men, I can see, with faces that are practically screaming ‘who the hell are these bloody twits’?” Jeremy Clarkson, better know as Jezza, Orangutan, or simply, Clarkson, postulates from his seat positioned directly opposite a currently empty two-seater sofa. “Well, won’t keep you from having your questions answered any longer. Please welcome Yunho Jung and Changmin Shim, better known as the musical duo, TVXQ!”

 

The resulting cheer is rather interesting in its duality; half of the audience wolf-whistles and shrieks, while the other half are basically slumped at the spot, standing around and clapping with all the enthusiasm of a three-toed sloth.

 

Two men, tall and rather well formed, make their way to the empty sofa amidst the noise, folding themselves into it in a way that makes the colloquial term for such sofas, ‘loveseats’, more appropriate than usual. Clarkson raises a bushy eyebrow, but does not react otherwise to the seating arrangement.

 

“Hello, gentlemen,” is what he ends up saying, and reaches over to shake their hands. The slighter shorter of the two grasps his hand first, in a surprisingly firm grip. “Hello Jeremy, hello everyone, I’m Yunho, and I’m very pleased to meet all of you.”

 

The other clasps Clarkson’s hand in a quick hold-and-release movement. “And I’m Changmin.” He offers no further elaboration, not even when Yunho not-so-subtly nudges an elbow against his side.

 

Clarkson’s other eyebrow pops up to join its counterpart, but he does not comment.

 

“So! If you don’t mind – this is practically a ritual, I ask everyone about this— tell me about your car history. Both of you.” Clarkson leans back in his seat, gaze intent on the both of them.

 

Yunho looks askance at Changmin, who shakes his head and offers a hand out at Yunho. “You first,” he demurs, raising an eyebrow when Yunho rolls his eyes in response.

 

“You’re always— All right, I’ll go first then.” Yunho steeples his fingers, and darts a vaguely apologetic glance at Clarkson. “Don’t judge—”

 

“I would never!” Blusters the older man, but with a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“—But my very first car was a Daewoo Leganza, and a used one to boot. Got it in 2004. I only drove it when I was back in Gwangju, though.”

 

“A Daewoo?” Clarkson wrinkles his nose. “Now, not judging here, but that is so… Civilian. I was expecting something more flashy, you are a celebrity, after all; though kudos to you, for driving a domestic car. But a Daewoo? Even one of Hyundai’s bleeding sedans would be a better choice.”

 

Yunho shrugs. “Our paychecks were still tiny then, because we were starting out. And my dad recommended getting a used car. He reckoned it would help in character building.”

 

“Character building,” echoes Clarkson in disbelief. Beside Yunho, Changmin begins to snicker while attempting to disguise the sounds as a series of truncated coughs.

 

“Something like that,” Yunho grins. “In actuality it was because I could only afford Daewoo cars, even used ones.”

 

“It’s just… I can’t see it with you,” Clarkson throws up a hand in emphasis. “Scion of a family of lawyers, world famous entertainer, philanthropist, occasional _ack_ -tor. And your first car was a Daewoo. And not even a Daewoo truck, for which they’re mildly famous. But— a Leganza? Dare I even ask about the engine?”

 

“Two-point-oh,” Yunho answers promptly. “And a hundred and thirty one for horse power.”

 

Clarkson gives a shudder of distaste, raking in a few laughs from their audience. “Well, I suppose if you must. I do hope your current car has come up in the world, though.”

 

“Ah, I drive an Audi A4 now.” Yunho tilts his head slightly to the side. All the better to observe Clarkson’s reaction. The man in question works his mouth around what that look like words, but no sound comes out.

 

Yunho takes that as encouragement to continue. “You’ll like the engine better, I think. It’s a B7 V6 quattro engine. I’ve her for quite a number of years but she still purrs when I head to the highways.”

 

Clarkson makes a face not unlike a gaping trout. “You do realize that’s basically a glorified Volkswagen, don’t you? They’re big on efficiency and little else. All their cars are the same. The same, I tell you.”

 

Yunho ducks his head, trying not to smile. He is not very successful. “I like how she handles, though. And she can go to a hundred kilometres in roughly six seconds. Impressive for a standard Volkswagen.”

 

Clarkson rubs a hand over his face, and tries not to sigh. “Right, right. Although I do admit that the engine is decent, but— you’re a star! You’re _rich_! How long have you been driving this, now? Six, seven years? I think it’s time for you to think about buying a new one, m’boy.”

 

Yunho lets out a laugh, “she’s still handling well, although, I’ll give your words some thought. Maybe. The new BMW 5 series Gran Turismo does looks pretty good.”

 

“Good man,” agrees Clarkson. “Smashing choice. And it’ll be excellent when you need to make commuting trips between Seoul and Gwanjgu. She opens out well in long distances. And you!” He turns his gaze suddenly to Changmin, who jumps a little, not expecting the abrupt shift in attention. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you, young man. Your first car, now.”

 

“Uh, mine?” Changmin stammers a little, at Clarkson’s furrowed eyebrows and forehead. “It was a present from the company. An Audi A6.”

 

Clarkson blinks, and blinks again. Then he gives a little cock of his head to Yunho. “Any relationship to his A4?”

 

“Yeah, we both got them at the same time, as presents from the company.”

 

Clarkson gives a low whistle. “Bugger me sideways. Sign me up with that company of yours,” he grouses, to more laughter. “Similar engines, then?”

 

“No, actually,” Changmin sits up a little, a gleam in his eye. “Mine’s 3.0, but supercharged. More powerful and less noisy.”

 

“Hey!” Yunho protests, but he subsides into a mild sulk as Changmin’s dig prompts a scattered burst of hilarity.

 

“Compared to Yunho’s first car, though,” Clarkson muses. “I’ll say yours is miles –pun intended— better.”

 

“Thank you,” Changmin offers Clarkson –and the audience—his first open-mouthed grin, which results in a few stray shrieks from the very back of the audience. It widens as Clarkson rolls his eyes and his finger about the side of his ear, reaching out to his Styrofoam cup of water with the other.

 

“My current car is a Lexus. A Lexus IS350.” Changmin offers without preamble, prompting Clarkson to choke not-quite-gracefully and rather visibly on his water.

 

“You— I— A Lexus? You?”

 

“New car. A present to me from, well, me.” Changmin smiles blandly, but the glint in his eye shows that he was quite enjoying himself. Yunho lifts a hand to cover his eyes even as Changmin continues blithely, “it’s very pretty, even if I do say so myself.”

 

Clarkson has gotten his windpipe back under control, but barely. The older man points an accusing finger at Changmin. “You are a Korean. You drive a Toyota. Identify the contradiction underlying these statements, thanks.”

 

“Not quite a Toyota,” Changmin parries back, chortling slightly. Yunho hunches his shoulder and slides down, a little, in his seat. “A near relation, but not quite. And I’ve never bought much into national stereotypes. It’s too stressful.”

 

“You drive a full sized sedan—” Clarkson begins, only to be interrupted.

 

“—a hybrid, actually, I had it imported from Japan.”

 

“You,” Clarkson is undeterred, “drive a Japanese car in a country full of people with a probably unhealthy obsession with domestic cars. And you claim that’s relaxing, in contrast.”  

 

“Yes, I do. And don’t tell me you don’t like Lexus’ cars, I read that prolonged wordgasm you called a review you did on their LFA,” Changmin beams.

 

“Yes, well but—” Clarkson is spluttering, much to the audience’s amusement, “that’s the LFA. It’s a sports car. You drive a very, er, sedate _sedan_.” He says ‘sedan’ like how another person, another _normal_ person would say ‘maggots’.

 

“It’s still Lexus, they’re still related,” Changmin taunts gleefully, “and what’s better is that there are at least more than five hundred IS350 hybrids around. None of the elite shit they were pulling with the LFA.”

 

“Well, yes, but you—”

 

“Can’t take it back, you like Lexus, admit it.”

 

Yunho sighs and offers Clarkson a commiserating look.  “I’m so sorry, I really can’t take him anywhere.”

 

“It’s all right, he’s… unique, you should be very proud,” Clarkson’s words are consoling, but the shark-like grin on his face is not. He braces his chin on a steeple he forms with the fingers on both hands, eyeing both of them contemplatively. “So. I really should have gotten to this sooner, but I couldn’t think of a way to talk about this without sounding like too much of a git. Not that I aren’t but, one likes to be discreet about things like that.”

 

Yunho nods, and Changmin arches an elegant and well-tweezed eyebrow at him.

 

Clarkson sits forward, legs apart, hands clasped before him. “Well, how to put this delicately? The two of you are megastars in Asia and rather well-known to the rest of the world. Both of you, at the peak of rather lengthy careers right now, and I don’t doubt that’s raked in a lot of money for you. You even have the luxury cars to prove for it, even though his,” he inclines his chin towards Yunho, “is getting on in years, really. So what about the missing part of the equation?”

 

“I’m sorry?” Yunho looks slightly confused. There is a dawning look of— _something_ on Changmin’s face.

 

“The women, lad, the women!” Clarkson practically groans in exasperation. “Don’t play the blithering idiot, it doesn’t become you. So, decently fast cars for two of the most eligible bachelors in Asia, huge continent. What about the birds then? Any secret marriages with certificates from Vegas? Or babies hiding in the wings?”

 

“Ah, no, none for me, I’m focused on my career right now, and it isn’t allowing me time for a relationship, at all,” Yunho offers Clarkson a smile he usually reserves for publicity shoots. He forces himself not to look at Changmin, who has stilled beside him.

 

“Politically correct nonsense,” scoffs Clarkson, “Utter rot. Generic bullshit fabricated to feed the masses. I’m almost insulted, really, except the sight of your manager sagging in relief over there is rather entertaining.” He eyes Changmin. “Your turn now, I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

 

“I’m gay,” Changmin replies blandly, to a mild uproar from the female part of the audience.

 

Clarkson lets out a rumbling snort. “You’re not even trying! No, seriously, tell me.”

 

“I did.” Changmin spreads his hands out in a show of supplication, mock innocence written in every line of his frame. “I like dicks.” Cue more feminine squeals of shock and disappointments, mostly muffled and strangled sounding.

 

Yunho stares at the studio lights and pretends with much effort that he is not there.

 

Clarkson performs a moue of dismay, an expression that looks disturbingly alien when coupled with his jowls, which are all but quivering in indignation. “What rubbish. _That’s_ not an answer, all straight men like dicks too, especially their own. Do you really expect me to believe you take it up the a—”

 

A short blaring noise, not unlike a foghorn’s, sounds in the studio, and Clarkson turns in his seat to see the producer frantically gesturing at his throat in a cutting motion, and Changmin’s manager next to him, arms folded across his chest and murder in his eyes.

 

“Right,” Clarkson swivels back to Yunho and Changmin. “Looks like the higher ups are more interested in politically correct drivel. All right, then! I guess I’ll just settle for saying,” he points at Yunho, who is reaching for his cup of water, “you don’t have time for a bird, and _you_ ,” the finger shifts over to Changmin’s direction, “you don’t like birds.”

 

“I was never one for avian creatures, even as pets when I was a child,” Changmin says mildly, as the audience subsides, but only barely. “My interest has always run in a more equine direction. Particularly… studs.”

 

Yunho chokes on a mouthful of water. Changmin reaches a hand around his back to give him a few solid thwacks, all the while keeping his smile directed at Clarkson. “So many choking incidents today, how odd.”

 

“Odd indeed,” Clarkson bites his lips, but the studio cameras catch the twitching at the corner of his mouth, anyway. “I suppose we should move along to safer topics, now. Rather dull, but necessary. The show must go on and all that.”

 

Yunho clears his throat, visibly discomfited. “Yeah, we should, yeah.”

 

Clarkson laughs again, and collects himself with some effort. “Speaking of going on— The Stig had lots of things to say about you going on the test track today, both of you.”

 

“You mean he can talk? Shocking,” is Changmin’s laconic reply.

 

“Does that mean he instructed you with lots of arm flapping and hand waving?” Clarkson asks.

 

Yunho opens his mouth, but Changmin is faster. “Well, there was some mumbling, but I thought it was him choking behind that giant helmet from lack of air.”

 

“That thing is not really good for ease of breathing,” Clarkson agrees, with a smirk, “but he manages. I think he got used to it, for the quid we’re flinging at him. So you couldn’t get what he was saying? At all?”

 

“He’s joking. The Stig actually spoke to us with a lot of eloquence,” Yunho cuts in. Changmin settles back in his seat, looking like the cat that has both eaten the canary and eaten the cream. “And I, for one, actually learnt quite a bit. I mean, before today, I wouldn’t have thought you can race in a one-point-six Vauxhall Astra, but it turns out, if you let her out, she gets to a hundred at about six seconds, too. I was honestly, really surprised.”

 

“And _I_ learnt that you can’t bribe The Stig to take his helmet off.” Changmin frowns with some disappointment. “No matter the nature of the bribe.”

 

“Just what did you—never mind, I don’t want to know,” Clarkson waves his hand, resignation thick in his voice, “you can tell me after the show, when the cameras stop rolling.”

 

“I’ll also like to add that we at Top Gear provided them with an American version of the Astra, with the steering on the other side, because in South Korea, they drive on the wrong side of the road, too. Bloody savages.” He adds, almost absentmindedly, to the audience, his words belied by the sound of Changmin sniggering.

 

“Who would like to see the laps they did?” At the many –and high-pitched— ‘yes’es from the crowd, Clarkson nods, looking at the camera zoomed in at his face. “Let’s have a look, shall we? Roll the tape.”

 

* * *

 

“Three, two, one, go!”

 

The Vauxhall Astra, a nicely polished Power Red – as Vauxhall had declared on their company website and brochures— lunges forward, noses over the starting line, and promptly lurches to a stop. Onscreen, Yunho lets out a yell and starts to bang his head slowly against the steering wheel.

 

Back in the studio, Yunho has his hands over his face. Both on the tape –standing to the side some ways away from the starting line— and off, Changmin is laughing. But while his taped self was bent double, howling his amusement to his knees, the Changmin in the studio is cackling so hard that at first glance –or the second or the twenty-third – he appears to be suffering from a mild seizure.

 

“Really?” Clarkson says, after a too long pause of disbelief, to twitters from the audience. “Really? Wow, I— _wow_. I think that’s the first time someone’s stalled the Astra, and in normal weather conditions, too.”

 

“This is _so_ embarrassing,” Yunho garbles from behind his hands, and Changmin just continues snickering into the cushions of the loveseat. Clarkson shakes his head, “let’s watch his second attempt now, hopefully he’s actually able to actually set off, hmm?”

 

The tape continues rolling, and the audience oohs as the Astra eases off of the starting line, and down the test track, at a decent speed. Inside the car, Yunho is silent, brows furrowed and gaze intent on the track before him, occasionally glancing upwards at the ominous looking storm clouds on the horizon.

 

The first turn comes, and Yunho visibly tenses, sitting slightly straighter in the driver’s seat, chanting, “take the turn, take it, take it, take it, go, go, go—”

 

He whoops as he rounds the corner with minimal slipping, hands fisting in celebration. “Yesssssss, that was great, that was—”

 

The next one comes, and he slams his hand back on the clutch hastily, even as his foot presses down against the pedal, “this one too, come on, baby, we can do this, come on, let’s go—”

 

He clears it too, and lets out another howl of victory, while stomping harder on the accelerator, navigating left-then-right for a kinked corner. “Just you and me, beautiful, against the world, here we goooo—”

 

(In the studio, Yunho is watching—peeking, more like—through his fingers, while going, “oh my god, what was I thinking, this is so embarrassing, I sound so cheesy, Changmin, kill me, just kill me, please, _please_ ” into Changmin’s back.

 

Clarkson is relatively unruffled, in comparison. “It’s all right, we’ve had perfectly lovely people saying worse things while at the Hammerhead. Which by the way, I must compliment— you took it neatly without slowing down, quite a feat!”)

 

The Astra zooms down the track in a straight line, and Yunho lifts his hand off of the clutch to brace both against the steering wheel, a wide grin upon his face.

 

“Get your motor running,” the Yunho in the video sings, much to the amusement of all the people watching, and much to his (the him in the studio) abject mortification, “head out on the highway! Looking for adventure, in whatever comes our waaaaaa—”

 

Yunho drags out the last word as he turns the wheel for the car to accommodate the final turn, easing up on the speed slightly as he almost loses control of the grip.

 

(“Oh, very well done!” Exclaims Clarkson, eyes glued on the screen. “You cleared Gambon’s corner on four wheels and with minimal slip, too. Shame about the slowing down, though, that’s going to cost you.”)

 

It is a false alarm, though, and when the Astra is clear and barrelling towards the finish, he stomps the accelerator again and guns for the white line chalked out clearly ahead, warbling, “I got the need for speed!”

 

It shoots past the line and does an impressive U-turn, some distance away, and Yunho tumbles out from the driver's side, arms braced up high, another whoop spilling from his lips.

 

* * *

 

“Yunho Jung’s lap on the test track in our Vauxhall Astra, everyone!”

 

The clip ends to much applause. Clarkson is trying very hard to not guffaw and lose his composure. Changmin has no such qualms—he is still laughing, or rather, giggling, really, into the arm of the loveseat.

 

“Oh, that was…” Yunho presses the heels of his hands to his eyelids, shaking his head. “I am so sorry.”

 

“Whatever are you apologizing for,” Clarkson looks completely befuddled. “That was extremely entertaining, wouldn’t you all say?”

 

The audience roars out an impressive ‘yes’, and Yunho finally takes his hands away from his face and looks at Clarkson, who goes with some incredulity:

 

“My god, are you actually— you are! You’re blushing,” to which the audience are treated to Yunho’s features flushing a deeper red. Changmin finally sits upright, an arm braced about his stomach, a sigh leaking out from him.

 

“Back with us, are you?” Clarkson asks, and it takes two seconds and another round of tittering from the audience for Changmin to realize the comment is directed at him, not Yunho.

 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. That was funny, thanks, Yunho,” he grins, slinging an arm about the other, who is still doing a credible impersonation of a tomato. “Thanks, I needed that.”

 

“Not so fast, my boy, your turn is coming up later,” Clarkson tut-tuts to the look of dawning horror on Changmin’s face. He turns back to Yunho, “you don’t look very happy with your lap, why’s that?”

 

“I just think I could have done better,” Yunho grouses, laughing a little when Clarkson responds with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “A perfectionist, are we?”

 

“Bit sad that you two could only do one lap each, though, that’s what you get for being so bloody busy,” he continues offhandedly, reaching for the pen and clipboard lying on the table between them. “I don’t suppose you’ll like to know your time?”

 

“Yes, please,” Changmin says immediately, when Yunho hesitates.

 

“I’m not asking you, you don’t get to answer,” Clarkson retorts, setting Changmin off into chuckles again and bringing a wry smile to Yunho’s face. The latter sighs. “Yes, I’ll like to know my time.”

 

“Very well.” Clarkson shuffles the papers on the clipboard and retrieves a oblong strip of white magnet. “You did it in…”

 

Yunho shuts his eyes. Changmin leans forward.

 

“One minute.”

 

The studio is so quiet that one could hear a pin drop. Everyone is holding their breath. Yunho laces his fingers together.

 

“Forty… Don’t look so tense now, forty is good,” Clarkson suddenly adds, and the atmosphere lightens up somewhat. Yunho allows himself to smile a little, and then bows his head in prayer.

 

“Four.” Clarkson intones, as a gasp sounds from the audience. Already some people are wolf whistling and indulging in catcalls. “I’m not done yet, steady there.”

 

Yunho looks up, to meet Clarkson’s gaze.

 

“Point _three_ , give him a hand, everyone!” Clarkson hollers, to deafening applause.  He bends over the magnet, pen in hand. “Yunho Jung, the fastest Star in a Reasonably Priced Car, in our new Vauxhall Astra, right here on Top Gear! Congratulations!”

 

Huffing out a breath, Yunho rubs a hand over his face. Beside him, Changmin sniffs theatrically and is clapping, but with a barely suppressed grin.

 

Clarkson stands, and flings the strip of white magnet between the red “Top Gear” lettering and the previously topmost strip, muttering to general laughter, “poor Johnson, he’s outstripped by a shocking point eight seconds, he’s going to want to come back for a do-over.”

 

“YUNHO JUNG, 1.44.3”, the magnetic strip states, in a charmingly horrid scrawl.

 

“Now that that’s done,” remarks Clarkson, as he returns to his seat. He waves a hand at Yunho. “So how do you feel about that? About being the fastest star, so far?”

 

“Just… Relieved.” Yunho answers, a hand curved about the back of his nape. “I really didn’t expect—I was hoping for a mediocre result.”

 

“Really.”

 

“Yes, I just— and happy too, I guess— I don’t know, I thought I could drive better, I, the, ah—” He flounders, and: “Can we just move onto Changmin’s segment?”

 

Clarkson snorts. “I suppose we’d better.” He eyes Changmin, “I thought nothing would beat singing rock songs while racing a car, but yours is rather interesting, too, you know.”

 

“I know. I was there.” Is Changmin’s rather witty response. Clarkson gives him a deliberately un-amused look. “Cheeky bugger, aren’t you.”

 

“I try.”

 

“Well?” Clarkson turns back to the crowd. “Do you want to see Changmin’s very interesting lap?”

 

At the loud “yes” that sounds, Clarkson turns back to Changmin, who looks decidedly smug. “They want to see it. All right. Roll the tape, please!”

 

* * *

 

The sky is a dark grey, bordering on puce. Fat rain droplets splatter down, blurring the lens of the camera. Calling the deluge ‘downpour’ or ‘rainstorm’ smacks of a rather weak understatement.

 

(“Bloody hell, that _is_ wet,” Clarkson breathes, eyes glued on the screen.)

 

Suddenly, the camera swings, towards a slightly blurry figure clad in white, who is waving their arms about rather agitatedly, and going through a series of odd motions involving their head, which is clad in an impressive white helmet, and one of their feet.

 

(“What did you do to set The Stig off now,” Clarkson says more than asks. Changmin shrugs, looking aggrieved, “I just complained that I need new tyres because the ones on the car were more than likely worn out from Yunho’s drive. And that someone needed to make sure there was no leftover oil on the test track. I think he got mad because he thought I wanted him to do them for me. I couldn’t really tell from the flailing about and the mumbling, it was raining too loudly.”

 

“My God, you are fussy,” declares Clarkson, with more admiration than appropriate. Yunho is nodding fervently to the statement, while Changmin gives another shrug.)

 

The Stig goes off screen, arms still akimbo in alleged dissatisfaction. It is apparent that more than a little time has passed the next time the camera focuses on the starting line, because Changmin is seated in the car and the sky is a lot darker than it was a shot back, and the rain is coming down a lot harder than before.

 

“Three, two, one, go!”

 

The Astra sets off, with a squeal of wet tyres and an enormously –pun intended— remarkable spray of water in its wake. Inside it, Changmin opens his mouth.

 

“Ah, s[bleep]t f[bleep]k d[bleep]k rain.”

 

The audience in the studio roars with laughter, even as the Astra weaves slightly along a mild kink, then shoots around the first curve proper, aided by the lack of friction generated by a wet track.

 

“F[bleep]k yeah, f[bleeeeeeep]g take that!” Changmin mutters, eyes glued on the windscreen at the track outside—or what little is visible of it. He cranes his head forward, as though that will help compensate for the fact that he is basically driving blind.

 

(“What giant balls you have, to go with that potty mouth,” observes Clarkson mildly, drawing more hoots. “That was stupid, but ballsy. Very ballsy. You could have crashed, so easily, in that atrocious weather. And what in bloody hell is that, that’s not rain, that’s a sodding biblical flood.”)

 

He changes shift at the clutch and tightens both hands on the steering wheel, still glaring out at the rain, while taking the Astra hard, zooming past a tyre wall with a spray of water that all but drowns the camera. “F[bleeeep]g s[bleep] stupid c[bleep]k a[bleep]s!”

 

(“The Hammerhead is coming up, this ought to be fun,” Clarkson shifts forward eagerly.)

 

“Do it, f[bleeeeep]g take it, for f[bleeeeep]g f[bleep]’s—” The Astra tilts dangerously to first one side, then the other, as it skids around the left-then-right corner, to gasps from the audience, and a loud “ohhhh, look at that” from Clarkson. Yunho has his hands over his eyes again, and Changmin merely stares at the screen as intensely as he had out the windshield in the afternoon.

 

“S[bleep] p[bleep]s d[bleep]m, okay, Changmin, time to f[bleeeeep]g calm down, deep bre—wait f[bleep]k it c[bleep]t m[bleeeeeeep]g f[bleep]k f[bleep]k!” Changmin does not stop cursing as he rounds another bend, and yet another, clipping the edges of the track to speed down a more linear section, which is a bit of a reprieve.

 

The Astra is winding along the slippery track, albeit at an eye-popping speed, like a university student after their first taste of cheap gin. Changmin sends it around the penultimate corner, cursing up a figurative storm as a literal one rages outside; when the rear tyre on the right dips briefly into the grass by the track and then back on the bitumen, leaving yet another fountain of water trailing behind.

 

(“Look at the tail on that thing,” Clarkson marvels, “look at it. And look at you! You look like you’re doing a commercial for an amphibious car, if you take away the helmet and have someone actually film your face in HD.”)

 

In the car, Changmin stomps his foot down on the accelerator and grits his teeth as the final turn looms, the marks on the tracks made practically invisible by the increasing amount of puddles. He spins the steering wheel and holds on, making the Astra hug the curve as though his life –and her appearances on the show— depends on it.

 

The car and Changmin speed down the last of the track and past the finishing line, a jubilant “F[bleep]k!” spilling from Changmin’s lips. He cheers, only to have the Astra sink rear first into the grass and do a half-spin, finally stopping further down the track, to applause from the audience in the studio.

 

* * *

 

Clarkson shakes his head slowly, fingers pressed to the side of his temples. “You bloody driving menace,” he utters, reaching his free hand over to shake Changmin’s. “You brilliant, brilliant man.”

 

Changmin grins and lets him.

 

Clarkson leans back again in his seat. “That was. Wow. No words. Except that you drive like a bloody maniac. Wow. I don’t know if I am appalled or— just— Wow. You are the epitome of the drivers my mum used to nag me about when I first told her I’ve got a car.”

 

The audience titters. Yunho clicks his tongue disapprovingly, even as he directs a more than fond look at the man sitting beside him. “Wait till you see what he does when people cut him off on the roads.”

 

A full body shudder rakes through Clarkson, eliciting more hilarity. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to think about it. I would like to sleep tonight, thanks. On the bright side, we can now plant crops in there, in the grooves you dug into the side, well done.”

 

He pats the clipboard still on his lap, eyeing Changmin. “So how do you think you did, back there? Any thoughts? Guesses? Hopes?”

 

A rueful frown tugs on the corner of Changmin’s lip. “Well, obviously not as well as Yunho did.”

 

“Obviously,” retorts Clarkson, “seeing how he was driving on land and you were going by sea.” More than a few chuckles sound at that pronouncement.

 

“No, really. Any place you want to be on the board?”

 

“I don’t know,” admits Changmin, after a quick nudge to his side from Yunho. “Maybe near the back but not at the very end? Why don’t you tell me?”

 

“All right,” Clarkson nods, retrieving a fresh strip of white magnet. “So. Moment of truth. You did it in…”

 

Changmin takes a deep breath.

 

“One minute.” Clarkson looks up from the papers. “That’s good, don’t worry. At least it’s not a two.”

 

Yunho slips an arm about Changmin’s shoulder and squeezes.

 

“Forty.”

 

Changmin lets slip a tiny sight of relief. Clarkson’s eyebrows bunch together. “Don’t go sighing now, I’m not done yet, there’s more.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Changmin cracks his knuckles. “Hit me.”

 

“I hope you don’t mean literally, because I’m a pacifist.” Clarkson hums, to a scatter of disbelieving snickers from the audience. “I am! Somewhat. Maybe with a car, I’ll hit you with a car if you ask nicely. All right, all right.”

 

He pauses. Then: “Nine point eight, in very wet conditions!”

 

Changmin exhales, and turns into the hug Yunho is already offering. They separate some seconds later, only to find Clarkson staring at them, rather nonplussed.

 

“Calm down, lads, it’s not like I just told you you’ve won the lottery,” he shakes his head and scribbles on the magnetic strip, adding a ‘VW’ at the end, before sticking it onto the middle of the board, somewhere near but not at the very bottom, as previously hoped.

 

“CHANGMIN SHIM, 1.49.8 VW”, the second magnetic strip of the day declares, with little improvement to Clarkson’s penmanship.

 

“Quite a respectable time, really,” Clarkson comments, as all their gazes are fastened on the leader board. “In such horrendous conditions. Well done, well done. How do you feel about that?”

 

“… Hungry.” Changmin admits, and Yunho lets out an embarrassed groan. “All the excitement is making me remember I haven’t eaten in the last four hours.”

 

“Right. You heard him, the lad is peckish,” Clarkson deadpans, looking towards the crowd. “Guess we shouldn’t keep them, then. Might decide to snack on us instead.”

 

He stands up, and Changmin and Yunho follow suit, bowing.

 

Another round of handshakes commences, to applause, and Clarkson gestures at both younger men with a sweeping wave. “Thank you for coming, it was really lovely to have you here; do come back anytime, especially you, Changmin, to have another go at the track. All right, ladies and gentlemen— Yunho and Changmin, of TVXQ!” 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy HoMin Day 2014!  
> [And also: Happy Lantern Festival元宵节 / Happy Valentine's Day / Happy Single Awareness Day / Happy Birthday to both Jung and Shim. Did I miss out any important date? I hope not.]
> 
> I don't know shite about cars, I don't even drive. I am faking it. All the information I vomited out above comes from years of following Top Gear - because Clarkson and Hammond whaling on May amuses more than it should- so if there is anything incorrect, please let me know so that I can change it. 
> 
> Lots of references to some past episodes; the stalling thing is stolen from Hiddles' recent turn on it, Jung's reaction is a mixture of Atkinson's and Hamilton's (his second appearance) responses when Clarkson asked them how they thought they did, crops planting quip was by Clarkson when Guy Ritchie popped in (I think), taking Gambon's corner on four wheels is of course, a nod to Sir Michael's two-wheeled attempt. And many more, but I can't be arsed to check up on them. 
> 
> Comments, especially constructive criticism (or if you spot any grammatical/spelling mistakes), are as always, very appreciated. Your suggestions help me improve.


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